“Broke my right wrist once. Seems I have it in for the right side of my body.”
“Good thing, too,” said Anitra. “Left side this time and it’d be awfully close to your heart.”
Rue shuddered.
Anitra helped Quesnel take a nip from the laudanum bottle. He made a disgusted face.
“I can’t think of anything else.” Anitra turned to go.
Rue nodded. “Send Virgil down, would you, please? Ask him to check in with Cook, eat something, and bring us tea. I’ll stay with Mr Lefoux for the time being.”
Anitra agreed and left, leaving the door to Quesnel’s room wide open. As if anyone still cared about Rue’s reputation. As if Quesnel were capable of doing anything with the tattered remains of said reputation. Rue wished he could.
The Frenchman was looking strangely young. His blond hair was darkened by sweat, spiky against the pillow. “Rue, chérie, I have to tell you something.”
“It’s not important.” Rue made herself sound reassuring. He seemed so worried. “I’ll be nearby when you wake. Send Virgil and I’ll come right away.”
Quesnel forced his eyes open. “No!” They were heavy-lidded with the poppy’s fateful effects. “Robins are here.”
Rue drew up a chair and leaned close, wanting to touch him very badly but not wanting to cause any further pain.
“I left it too long, didn’t I?” he whispered, slow and slurred.
“What?”
“Why didn’t you ever ask me how I felt about you, Rue?”
“I’m frightened.”
He was trying to focus on her face through the robin feathers. “No one has ever accused you of lacking courage.”
So Rue screwed that courage to the sticking point. “Why did you do as Dama asked, about the preservation tank? You don’t owe him any favours.”
“Perhaps I wanted to please the father of the woman I loved.”
Rue blinked. He said it first. The word was out there, hovering above them, like a tiny explosive dirigible. “Are you secretly traditional and” – she paused, unsure of the right word – “romantic?”
“Perhaps I am.”
“But you’re so devil-may-care.” Rue’s stomach went all wobbly.
“You thought that meant I hadn’t a working heart underneath? Perhaps I hide the one with the other.” His voice was slurring. His eyes were closing again. “Perhaps I thought you were only curious.”
“Oh.” Rue was taken with this idea.
“Say it back, Rue. I might not wake up again, you realise?”
“Now who’s being melodramatic?”
He smiled, eyes closed.
Rue leaned over and whispered, very quietly, into his ear, “Well fine, then. I love you, too.”
He was already asleep.
“Lovely,” said Rue into the resulting silence. “Now I have to go through this again.”
SEVENTEEN
The Lost Pride of the Desert Wind
“Go through what again?” Primrose marched into the sickroom.
“Oh, nothing. He’s sleeping.”
“That’s good. Sleep heals.”
“Most sagacious, my dear.”
Primrose was holding a large reticule, stuffed to bursting, as well as a round pie tin, empty, and an embroidery hoop, full.
“Prim, you know Quesnel doesn’t embroider?” Rue shifted a little away from the patient so Prim might bustle.
Bustle Prim did. “But I do and someone should sit with him.”
“I sent for Virgil.”
“Excellent, then we can take it in shifts.”
“You’re too good sometimes, Primrose.”
“I know.”
“What’s the pie tin for?”
Prim went very red. “His, um, tender essentials.”
Rue blinked and then, “Oh.”
Primrose puttered about extracting various additional necessities from the reticule – her embroidery kit, the diminished bottles of cognac and iodine, more bandages, and a jar of calf’s foot jelly.
“And the jelly?”
“I don’t know. But Mother was always sending round calf’s foot jelly to invalids and I knew Cook had some, so I thought I might as well bring it along.”
“I’m impressed you stocked laudanum and bandages. Admirable foresight, my dear.”
Primrose glowed at the compliment. “We have as complete a medical cabinet as I could manage. I used Steel and Gardiner’s recommended list for a family emigrating to India and multiplied the contents tenfold.” She stood back, contemplating her stack. “Now, have I forgotten anything?”
“If you have, send Virgil out for it when he gets here.” Rue stood, stretching. “Don’t be surprised if Quensel wakes up talking of robins.”
Rue stayed, looking down at Quesnel while Prim settled in, organising things in that competent way of hers.
His face, without the twinkle and animation, was different, lost. And, of course, she’d never seen what he looked like sleeping.
“Primrose?”
“Yes, Rue?” Primrose put a comforting arm about Rue’s waist and rested her head on her shoulder.
“Did I do wrong by him?”
“Did he say he loves you?”
“You knew?”
Primrose wore an expression that said, clear as if she spoke the words, that the entire ship knew.